


Something in the Water

by Piscaria



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Attempted Rape, Community: stop_drop_howl, Dubious Consent, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-04
Updated: 2013-02-04
Packaged: 2017-11-28 05:04:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/670570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Piscaria/pseuds/Piscaria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After being tortured by a group of hunters, Derek goes into heat. Stiles helps him through it.</p><p>Written for the 24-hour porn challenge community, Stop, Drop, and Howl.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something in the Water

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS: Attempted rape (not between Derek and Stiles), dubious consent, aftermath of torture.

Stiles found Derek hanging naked from a pair of manacles, his head drooping so his hair obscured his face and his skin pallid beneath the streaks of long-dried blood. He didn’t stir when Stiles stepped into the room. For a brief, terrifying moment, Stiles’s heart seized with dread, and the walls of the room closed in around him, until only Derek remained, pale, bloody, and far too still. His skin was cool beneath Stiles’ fingers. _Werewolves run hot_ , Stiles thought, panicked, even as he fumbled his hand beneath the rough stubble of Derek’s chin, pressing two fingers to the curve between his jaw and throat. When the pulse thrummed beneath his fingertips, weak and slow, but undeniably there, Stiles thought he was going to cry.

“Derek,” he murmured, patting Derek’s face. “Derek, come on. Wake up.” Derek didn’t move.

Making a face, Stiles curled his hand into a fist and punched Derek as hard as he could. Pain blossomed through Stiles’s knuckles, and he swore, shaking his bruised fingers, even as dark eyelashes fluttered against the high curve of Derek’s cheekbone. 

Derek blinked, slowly, as though the effort pained him. Stiles didn’t even try to hide the relief in his voice when Derek’s eyes finally focused on his face.

“Thank God! Fuck. Are you okay?”

The noise that croaked free from Derek’s throat didn’t sound human, or even wolfish, more like the dry rasp of pumice against sandpaper. It took a second for Stiles to even realize it was a word.

“Water . . .”

He flicked his gaze over Stiles’s shoulder, and Stiles turned to follow it. A low table in the corner held a metal pitcher that turned out to be full of tepid water. Shit, Stiles realized, the hunters must have left it there so Derek could _smell_ it. All at once, he felt decidedly less bad about the two guards lying dead outside. 

Stiles lifted the pitcher to Derek’s lips, and he drank greedily, the muscles in his throat rippling as he swallowed. Stiles tilted the bottom up, and up, as Derek gulped. It had taken them nearly a week to track him down, and another day to work out how to free him. How long could a werewolf live without water?

When Derek had swallowed every drop in the pitcher, and licked the remaining moisture from his lips, he asked, “Isaac? Jackson?” His voice was stronger, but it still made Stiles’s throat hurt on principle.

“They’re with Scott,” Stiles said. “They drew the hunters out into the woods. We set a trap for them.” Rising up on his tiptoes, Stiles examined the manacles around Derek’s wrist, and finally decided they weren’t going to be opening any time soon. Instead, he dragged the table over from the corner, and climbed on top of it, examining the metal plate securing the chains to the ceiling. Stiles dug his keys from his pocket, silently thanking his dad for the multi-tool he insisted Stiles carry on his key ring. A few minutes’ work, and the chains clattered to the floor. Derek stumbled forward, onto his knees. For a second, he just braced his hands on the floor, head bowed. 

“Derek?” Stiles asked, clambering down from the table to kneel in front of him. Cautiously, he rested a hand on Derek’s shoulder. He expected Derek to shrug off the touch, maybe glare at him for good measure. Instead, Derek crumpled forward, pressing his face to Stiles’s throat. His breath gusted hot and wet over Stiles’s skin. Beneath his hand, fine tremors shook the muscles in Derek’s back.

“Hey,” Stiles murmured, curling his arm around Derek’s massive shoulders. “I’ve got you. It’s okay.”

Derek made a low, helpless sound into Stiles’s throat. His arms wrapped around Stiles’s waist, chains clattering against the concrete floor, and tugged him forward against his chest. The sharp scent of blood and sweat rose of Derek’s skin, almost dizzying. Stiles swallowed, patting Derek’s hair awkwardly. For all the times they’d been forced into close quarters, they’d never touched deliberately, not unless it was to hold Derek up in a pool, or tug Stiles out of danger. This desperate embrace scared Stiles, almost as much as seeing Derek hanging half-dead had. He and Derek were supposed to snipe at each other, to bitch, and mock, and save each other’s lives. This might as well be a stranger clinging to Stiles, a stranger dragging his rough stubble against the sensitive skin of Stiles’s throat and gulping down his scent in ragged, audible breaths. A stranger pressing his lips to Stiles’s skin and sucking a hot, biting kiss against Stiles’s jaw. 

“Derek?” Stiles squeaked. In response, Derek trailed a series of tiny pecks down Stiles neck, then bit down on his collar bone, tongue flicking out to ease the sting.

“Derek!” Stiles tried to wrench free, but Derek held him fast. He nuzzled into the triangle of skin exposed by the v-neck of Stiles’s t-shirt, lips, teeth, and tongue conspiring to drive Stiles crazy. His hands slid beneath the hem of Stiles’s t-shirt, his large palms leaving trails of heat as they dragged over the bare skin of Stiles’s back. Strange to think his skin had been so pale and cool earlier. He was flushed now, fever-hot. He pressed his face against Stiles’s chest, resting his ear right over Stiles’s heart, and just stayed there for a second. Stiles licked his lips, scared, confused, and so turned on that he didn’t think he could stand it. 

“This doesn’t make any sense,” he whispered. “You don’t even like me.”

Derek shook his head vehemently against Stiles’s chest. He caught Stiles’s hand, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the inside of Stiles’s wrist. For all the times he'd dreamed of this -- Derek's body flush against his, his mouth dragging over Stiles's skin in silken counterpoint to the rasp of his cheeks and chin -- Stiles had never imagined anything as reverent as this. Closing his eyes, Derek pressed Stiles's hand to his own roughly stubbled cheek and nuzzled into it, a small, content smile curving his lips. It took Stiles's breath away. Only the cold press of the chains against his skin convinced him this was really happening. Derek kissed the center of his palm, and licked a slow, hot trail up the underside of his index finger before plunging his mouth down around it. The surge of wet heat went straight to Stiles’s dick, and he groaned, tangling the fingers of his free hand in Derek’s hair. Derek suckled his finger for a long, blissful moment, then drew back a bit to nip at the tip. As he did so, he glanced up Stiles through his eyelashes, expression fond and mischievous and sultry as hell. Stiles had heard of bedroom eyes, but he’d never known what it meant until now. Derek’s were dark with lust, the pupils blown huge, and . . . 

Shit.

“Stop.” Stiles tried to scramble backwards, out of Derek’s grip. He’d been an idiot. The signs were all right there, and he hadn’t even _noticed._

Derek made a noise of protest, one hand tightening around Stiles’s hip even as the other shifted around Stiles’s hand, turning it so he could kiss Stiles’s bruised knuckles in a way that would have been almost romantic if it weren’t so horribly wrong.

“I mean it!” Stiles yelled, pushing Derek’s chest, hard. “Derek, stop!”

Derek blinked, shaking his head. His gaze swam around the room before focusing on Stiles. Frowning, he slowly loosened his grip, giving Stiles room to pull away. Stiles scuttled backwards on his hands and knees, putting several feet between them. His cheeks burned, and he felt like he couldn’t get enough oxygen, never mind the quick, ragged breath shaking his chest. His hard-on ached inside his jeans, and try as he might, he couldn’t look away from the proud line of Derek’s dick, the head peeking out from the foreskin, red, and shiny with pre-come, 

“Stiles?” Derek asked. His voice sounded lost. Young. 

Gentling his voice, Stiles said, “Dude. The water. You’re drugged.”

Both of them looked at the pitcher on the floor. Frowning, Derek caught the pitcher up and sniffed it. “Fuck,” he whispered, pressing his face to the metal.

“What is it?” Stiles asked. As surreal as Derek nuzzling and kissing him had been, this was even worse. The lost, helpless expression in Derek's eyes reminded him of the warehouse. Derek had looked that way when Scott forced him to bite Gerard Argent.

“Get out,” Derek choked. “Run. Now. Get in the Jeep, and drive away as fast as you can. I can hold myself back for a few minutes, but not longer.”

“What did they give you?” 

Derek shook his head, huffing out something that might have been a laugh or a sob. “A rare form of wolfsbane,” he said. “I should have smelled it. They must have known I’d be so thirsty that I’d only focus on the water’s scent.” 

“It’s an aphrodisiac?” Stiles guessed.

Derek rubbed his eyes. “Worse.” 

“Fuck,” Stiles said. Once, he'd spent an ill-advised night on YouTube looking up wolf mating. He hadn't been able to look Scott in the eye for two days afterward. “You’re in some kind of heat, aren’t you?” 

He didn’t need Derek’s reluctant nod to confirm it – the truth was written in the angry line of his jaw. He was still hard, and he’d curled one hand around the base of his dick, not pumping, just holding on, almost absently, the chain resting against his thighs. Stiles wondered if he even knew he was doing it. Looking quickly away, Stiles climbed to his feet, pacing in front of the door. He could feel Derek’s gaze on him, hungry. 

“But why would they –“ Stiles started, mostly thinking aloud. Then he looked at the room again, at the manacles still locked around Derek’s wrists, the table just the right height for bending someone over. He wanted to puke. “Did they?”

A muscle jumped in Derek’s jaw. “No.”

“But they would have.”

“Yes!” Derek snapped. “They would have. Jesus Christ.” He glared up at Stiles, expression vulnerable and defiant at once. 

“Fuck, I’m sorry.” Stiles scrubbed a hand over his eyes. “I talk before I think, you know that.” He risked a glance at Derek, trying to look only at his eyes, his face, and ignore all of his smooth, naked skin, his weeping cock. “Okay,” he said, trying to sound calm. “Look, I know you told me to go. But you can barely stand up right now. I’m not going to leave you alone. What if the hunters come back?”

“Stiles,” Derek said. He was trying to straighten his shoulders, lift his jaw, like he always did before an argument, but he was naked, shaking, still covered in blood, and his voice just sounded exhausted and hopeless.

“Do you trust me?” Stiles asked softly.

Derek stared at him.

Stiles sighed. “Never mind.“ He tried to ignore the sudden heaviness in his gut. “Well, do you have a girlfriend? A boyfriend? Hell, Isaac would probably –“

“Yes,” Derek ground out.

“Great!” Stiles hoped the word didn’t sound as forced to Derek as it did to him. He dug his cell phone out of his pocket. “Let’s call him. They’re probably finishing up with the hunters by now.” A hand clamped around his wrist, stopping the motion.

“No!” Derek said. “Yes. I mean . . . fuck. I can’t _think_ like this!” He dropped his head, defeated

Stiles swallowed. Inching forward, he touched Derek’s shoulder. “Derek?”

Derek tilted his chin up, letting Stiles see his face. He met Stiles’s eyes, then kept on going, tilting his head back further and further, until the long line of his throat stretched exposed for Stiles. 

Stiles licked his lips, dry-mouthed, more terrified, suddenly, than he’d been when he caught the ball in that championship lacrosse game last season. It would be so, so easy to fuck this up, and he didn’t have a clue what he was doing, not really.

He knelt and touched his lips to Derek’s throat, where the pulse pounded beneath Derek’s skin, so much faster and stronger than it had been when Stiles first found him. Derek’s hand came up to cup Stiles’s head, trapping him there. Stiles pressed another kiss to the point of his jaw, then bit down gently. A shudder ran through Derek’s body, and he yielded to the press of Stiles’s palms against his shoulders, let Stiles bear him down to the floor. It must have been cold, but Derek didn’t seem to mind.

“Stiles,” he whispered, running his hand through Stiles’s hair, down his back, pretty much anywhere he could reach. His other hand was still curled around his dick, stroking it lazily.

“That’s it.” Stiles kissed his cheek, his sideburn, the shell of his ear. “Let me take care of you.”

Hesitantly, he touched the back of Derek’s hand, the one that was on his dick. Their fingers tangled for a second, Derek’s slick with pre-come. Then Stiles’s hand was on Derek’s dick, and he was jacking Derek off. Derek was groaning, arching up into the touch. Stiles stroked him, slowly, wondering how it was so similar to touching himself, but so different at the same time. The foreskin was the most notable difference, sliding up and down with Stiles’s hand. But the pre-come, too, was different, slicker and more copious than a human’s. Stiles gathered some in his palm, used it to ease the slide of his hand. He tried to make it slow and steady, the way he liked best. Derek’s hand tangled once more with Stiles’s, drawing it down behind his balls.

“Fuck,” Stiles whispered, as Derek urged one finger inside. It was hot, impossibly tight. He stared down at his finger disappearing into Derek’s body. It felt surreal that Derek, of all people, was letting him do this, trusting him with this. 

Derek was squirming beneath, urging him to move. Stiles fingered him, slowly, trying to learn what felt best, until Derek’s hand covered his again, and one of Derek’s own fingers pushed in beside Stiles’s. 

“Oh my God,” Stiles gasped, as Derek guided him, showed him how to move, where to press. “This is so hot.”

Derek nodded frantically. “More,” he whispered, and Stiles touched another finger to the rim of Derek’s hole, feeling where they were stretching him open. But Derek made a low, pained sound, and pulled away.

“Did I do something wrong?” Stiles asked, blushing.

“Gonna come,” Derek grunted, lifting himself up onto his elbows.

“But—“ Stiles started, and Derek silenced him with a look.

“I need you inside me.” 

Stiles felt his mouth drop open. All at once, they were both scrabbling for his zipper. Derek peeled Stiles’s jeans and underwear down in a single motion, until they were tangled around Stiles’s ankles. Stiles toed his shoes off, then kicked the jeans free.  
He looked up to find Derek watching him, a wondering expression on his face. Their eyes met. 

“I’ve never . . .” Stiles whispered, even though that had to be goddamn obvious by now.

A smile quirked Derek’s mouth, and he sat up, kissing Stiles once, quickly, on the lips.“ You’re doing great,” he said,. “Come on.” He guided Stiles between his spread thighs. 

As Stiles watched, heart pounding, Derek slicked his hand up, wrapped it around Stiles’s dick. Stiles closed his eyes as Derek stroked him, trying to think about lacrosse, dispatch codes, anything but the slick tunnel of Derek’s fist around him.  
With one last, lingering caress, Derek pulled away.

“There,” he said. “Come on.”

Even after feeling Derek’s heat around his fingers, it was a shock to feel his dick sink into that hot, tight space. Derek’s body swallowed him up, inch by glorious inch, until Stiles bottomed out, balls slapping against Derek’s ass.

“Yes,” Derek groaned, hands settling on Stiles’s hips, guiding him into a rhythm. 

From there, it was a blur of snapping hips and wandering hands, of the manacle chains, cold against Stiles’s skin. When they finished, it was with Derek’s arms around Stile’s neck, and his lips pressed to the base of Stiles’s throat. When Stiles tried to pull out, Derek stopped him with a hand on his hip.

“Stay,” he whispered, not meeting Stiles’s eyes. “Just for a second.”

Sweat glistened on the curves of his pecs, the sculpted planes of his stomach. Stiles stayed, tucking his face into Derek’s chest.

* * *

They didn’t speak again until the Jeep was pulling up outside of Derek’s loft. Stiles fingers tapped a rhythm on the steering wheel, uncertain. Derek’s hand closed over his.

“Thanks,” he said, voice rough.

Stiles looked down at their joined hands. Derek's wrists had mostly healed by now, but Stiles could still see the red lines from the manacles. He leaned forward, until their foreheads were brushing together. “Any time,” he said.

The End.


End file.
